


We've Gathered Only Fragile Things

by kosame



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Comfort, Drama, Family, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:20:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kosame/pseuds/kosame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>It's fine if it's an awkward love / as long as it's a true one</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	We've Gathered Only Fragile Things

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the APH Kink Meme prompt: _Nation A finds Nation B sitting outside in a torential downpour, thoroughly depressed and convinced that no one likes him. A takes B home and takes care of him with dry clothes, blankets, hot chocolate, cuddling, etc. and proves to him that someone, namely A, does love him._

The rain is coming down in buckets as Sweden walks home, the sky the strange color between dark and light that storms create when it should be daylight still. He may as well have had his glasses off for all he can see through the sheets of water soaking the streets of Stockholm. Still, the walk isn't far and he has his umbrella and his coat, so it doesn't much bother him. At least, not until he sees a dark shape huddled on the sidewalk in front of his doorstep.

It's probably a person, at least that's what he thinks, despite the lack of movement. For all that it was summer, sitting outside in a downpour like this has to be an invitation to pneumonia, and he stoops down to put his hand on their shoulder and invite them inside, shifting his briefcase to the hand holding his umbrella and then the umbrella itself forward to cover the stranger as well.

They look up when Sweden shakes them gently to get their attention, and Sweden's heart sputters and stops for a minute when he sees who it is. "Sve," Finland says, seemingly still absent, before his eyes sharpen and he twists his mouth into a self-depreciating smile. "Hey."

"Come inside," Sweden says, and there's no argument. They can talk better in the house, after Finland is dry and not courting a summer cold. He helps Finland up, and from the way he's unsteady on his feet for a few moments, Sweden surmises Finland has been there for quite some time, in the same position, not moving. Finland follows him wordlessly as he fishes for the keys in his pocket and lets them in. He sets the umbrella down to dry just inside the door, hangs up his raincoat and rainboots as quickly as he can, and hurries inside to find a towel and maybe if he's lucky some spare clothes that will fit, leaving Finland to drip in his foyer.

A cursory search of his closet turns up a shirt purporting to be from the Reykjavík Marathon and a pair of sweatpants he's pretty sure had once belonged to Denmark. Sparing a few seconds to wonder if Iceland was smaller than Finland or not, he grabs one of his own shirts too, just in case. Nothing will fit properly, but at least the pants have a drawstring.

The more brainpower he could devote to frivolous things like this, the less he has to spend on things like wondering why Finland is here or why he'd chosen to sit in the rain instead of calling.

The smile Finland gives him when he returns with the towel has lost a little of it's disparaging edge, genuine warmth in the corners of his eyes. Sweden worries a little, but goes to put the kettle on instead of standing and staring; he knows people don't like it when he does that. He wants to give him soup but knows he would prefer coffee. After a few frozen moments of indecision, he decides to compromise and make coffee now and start a stew for dinner. It isn't what he was going to cook, but he can use tomorrow's vegetables and the day after's beef and make it work. He'd have to buy lunch the next day since he'll be without the leftovers he normally takes, but it's fine once in a while, and there's plenty of room in his fastidious budget since he rarely draws from the category marked "emergencies."

He puts the meat in a pot, runs the water, and sets it to boil. He doesn't wonder if he's avoiding Finland on purpose. He grinds the coffee beans and carefully concentrates on the spinning grounds. As he finishes the coffee, steam is coming off the pot and he lowers the heat, sliding in the vegetables he'd carefully cut at the beginning of the week and leaving it to simmer. Finland takes his coffee black, so he doesn't worry about a tray, just takes one mug in each hand and goes in search of his guest.

Finland is on the couch, changed with the towel around his neck. He's draped his clothes over the radiator and is looking aimlessly around the room, as if he hadn't been there countless times. Of course, when he comes, he's probably distracted by everyone else's chatter and laughter. Maybe he's never actually gotten the chance to really look.

Sweden hands him the coffee and he murmurs a word of thanks, cradling it in both hands and blowing across the top to cool it. Sweden doesn't sit, but he thinks maybe he should, he just doesn't know where. Finland takes a sip and makes a soft noise, then he looks up and Sweden realizes he definitely needs to sit; he's not sure Finland can really even see his face given how he's looming over him. He finally decides on the opposite end of the couch: not close but not too far.

First Finland apologizes, and Sweden shakes his head. He doesn't mind, he's just worried. Then Finland says, "It was just gloomy, you know?" Sweden doesn't know, so he doesn't say anything. Rain isn't unusual this time of year, so he's not sure why it would bother Finland just today. He'd never mentioned not liking rain or a fear of lightning, at least not that Sweden could remember.

They sit like that, rain pattering on the window, clock ticking on the wall, and he starts to feel like he should say something, pressure building in his chest beneath his collarbone. It never used to bother him when they would sit in silence, but there's a tension now that makes him uneasy.

"It wasn't very fair of me to come here, was it?" Finland asks into his coffee. There's decision written on his face, like he's already come to the conclusion and just asking the question to soften what he already knows. His hair is damp and he looks young. It's a scene Sweden hasn't seen in a long time, and what it reminds him of things he'd rather not remember. He doesn't agree but also doesn't understand, so he says nothing again.

"I'm not fair to you at all," he says, this time a statement, looking Sweden in the eye. Sweden still doesn't get it and lets his expression say so.

"You're going to make me say it, huh?" Finland says, and despite his tone, the fact that he understood what Sweden didn't say makes a little bubble of happiness burst in his chest. Sweden isn't fair to _anyone_ , he thinks a moment later. Finland doesn't turn back to his coffee, but his eyes don't quite focus either. "I take you for granted, but you're not some static caricature," he says.

This explanation is simultaneously enlightening and confusing. He doesn't feel unappreciated. He doesn't feel like Finland relies on him much at all, except to be a moderating influence at their family drinking parties, and even then, it's in his interest to keep everyone from falling down in the snow and not being seen again until spring thaw just as much as it is in Finland's. "You don't," he tries.

"I do," Finland says, laughing weakly at his own expense again. "I _know_ you're not the guy in my head, but you're so nice it's hard to believe that sometimes."

"There's a guy in your head?" Sweden asks, surprised. He'd thought Finland had always seen him clearer than he'd seen himself.

But the guy in his head seems to be a bridge too far for Finland. Sweden listens to his silence, then tries to puzzle out what Finland could mean. He's not particularly good at it, but he can try. The stew needs to be stirred, anyway, so he gets up and goes to the kitchen. When he comes back, he's no closer to an answer, but Finland is willing to speak again.

"Don't you want to know why I'm here?" There's something like a challenge under the words, and Sweden's instincts scream at him to steer the conversation away from whatever cliff Finland is clearly intent on careening them towards. But he can't say 'no,' so he reluctantly nods.

"I know I can be strange and distant," Finland starts, and Sweden immediately wonders whom Finland was talking to, that he would say those kind of things about himself. "And I know I don't really belong with you guys."

Sweden makes a distressed noise then, something strangled in his throat. Yes, Finland was only in their family because of circumstances, not blood like the rest of them, but that didn't matter because _he was theirs_ , and he desperately wished Denmark was there to get ridiculously angry and fight with Finland until those words dissolved into smiles and gemütlichkeit, or even Norway to savagely explain all the reasons that was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard, but it was just him. Just him, speechless and clumsy, standing frozen in the doorway of the living room.

"But the you in my head was looking at me like I could do no wrong, and—"

Sweden doesn't want to hear any more. If it's just a bad day, Finland will regret telling him later, and if he always thinks like this, Sweden doesn't think he can bear living with that knowledge. He shakes his head, widely, letting it swing from side to side without regulation. "Stop," he manages when Finland opens his mouth to speak again.

"I told you I wasn't being fair," Finland says quietly, and Sweden closes his eyes for a moment because he actually can't watch. It takes all his self-control to keep himself where he is and not across the room.

There is a rustle, and Sweden forces his eyelids back apart. Finland is checking the state of his clothes. There's no way they could be dry yet. It looks like Finland has discovered the same because he lets the cloth drop with a little sigh. "Do you mind if I just return these later?"

And the brittle thing that had been between them keeping them apart shatters. Finland is standing in Sweden's home wearing Iceland's shirt and Denmark's pants and he is not going to deny belonging to their family and then walk out the door. Sweden won't let him.

He is across the room in long strides, and he can tell from Finland's eyes that he looks scary. Good, he wants to be intimidating. He doesn't have passionate words or merciless wit or blank sarcasm; intimidating is all he has. "They're not mine anyway," he says, and suddenly everything else is gone from Finland's expression, replaced with confusion. "People forgot 'em here. _Our kin_ did."

"Do you want me to return these to them instead then?" Finland asks, and _of course_ , what he had meant to say hadn't been what he said.

"I want," he says, "to never hear you talk like that again."

Finland begins to agree, and Sweden abruptly realizes that had been the exact wrong thing to say. "Wait," he orders, and Finland complies. "You can tell me whatever you want," he amends.

"Okay."

That isn't right either. Why did Finland come to _him_? _Why did Finland come to him_?

"I made stew," he blurts.

"Thank you," Finland says with obvious unease in his voice. Sweden wonders if he's making Finland uncomfortable. He wonders why an imaginary him is comforting when a real him has never been anything but the opposite. Finland starts to move, to leave, and Sweden is desperate not to let another barrier grow up between them when the old one is still only newly gone.

"Y'don't have to worry about being fair." _I'm not either_ , he mentally adds.

"Don't say that," Finland pleads. "Not when I was the one who made you give up on me in the first place."

Sweden blinks behind his glasses. "I didn't." Something is sliding slowly into place at the back of his mind, some bit of the misunderstanding between them.

"Sve," Finland says like it's time for Sweden to see reason and stop being so obtuse, and Sweden realizes Finland actually doesn't _know_.

Shaking his head once, sharply, Sweden says matter-of-factually, "I still love you."

Something that looks like pain crosses Finland's face, and Sweden suddenly doubts himself. He takes a step backwards, but that only exacerbates the distress on Finland's face, so he tries forward instead. Forward, forward, then he tries to smile and runs a thumb gently along the curve of Finland's cheek. It's the truth, either way, so there's nothing wrong with saying it.

Finland turns into his touch, and Sweden reminds himself that Finland has had a bad day. He's probably got pneumonia. And after fully understanding that, he wraps his arms around Finland and holds his breath for the long second it takes for Finland's to wind around him in return.

"I made stew," he says again, and it fits better here, because Finland laughs, loud and forceful, but nothing breaks.


End file.
